In which our heroine recites a poem
Who: Miniyal and G'thon
Where: Their room. Because otherwise it would be indecent!
When: 17:36 on day 18, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: At the gather, Miniyal found a book for G'thon. Which lead to. . .this. In which he finds the poem she challenged him to and therefore recites it.
Warning: Adult content. Because when a woman buys erotica for the man she loves this is what happens. :)
11/3/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 17:36 on day 18, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
There had been another place marked at one point: a poem, its title a little telltale, its style a little more so. That time, Gans did not trouble to write anything on the slip of hide serving as communal bookmark. But he hasn't said anything, hasn't confirmed his choice in any way that would prove he's selected the right passage out of the collection.
He waits now for her to return from whatever the day's taken her away to do. He's meant to be writing in his journal; it sits closed on the blotter before him, pen and ink at the ready beside it. The pen is stained, so perhaps he has made -some- progress. But the man himself is kicked back - as much as he ever is - in the chair behind the work-desk, legs crossed, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, book open in one hand. The other keeps a teacup barely balanced on the chair-arm, fingers fidgeting slow circles across the design painted on the ceramic surface. Uncharacteristic attentiveness to what he's reading distracts him, but the bookmark lies telltale on the table by half a biscuit. Presumably he ate the other half before forgetting it.
The day takes her all over these days, running around doing research for the newest junior weyrwoman. Today she spent the day at home, well, at the weyr which is her home at least. Ensconced in the records room looking up records as far back as she can find. Anyone else might have found it a chore, but she was content to visit with the people she recently worked with and copy down what she needed and generally /not/ have to help out other people who come in looking for things. Much better for her to be able to just do what she wishes and tease those forced to help someone locate a record that they could remember seeing, somewhere, that had been written by a harper before this pass.
It is after this restful day, notes in hand, that she returns to their room. The door opens and she steps in quietly, letting out a sigh once the door is closed behind her. The day would have been perfect had she not had to visit the weyr's weavers again and actually pick up and pay for the items she, in some weird mood, commissioned. Still, that package is tucked under her arm as well, more carelessly than the notes she has taken. Her eyes flicker around the room and settle upon him, smiling as she remains by the door. "Busy?"
He ought to hear the closure of the door. And perhaps he does; after all, he's reaching, slow and silent, for the bookmark when she finishes coming through and lets out that little sigh. But her eyes hadn't been on him, at least not that he could be sure, at that point; it's the word that does it. The teacup twists out of his caressing fingers and dumps over onto the floor, lip down and foot up; as it falls a few droplets swing out of it, but the lack of a puddle - and the lack of any utterance of dismay from the tea-drinker - suggests the cup was empty. Still; Gans makes some effort to get that bookmark into the book, and the book itself closed, and his legs uncrossed, and himself sat forward in the chair so it might seem a little more like he's just - taking a moment away from the journal, yes. Not a long moment. Not most of the evening. All of this fails wholly, because he can't keep suppressed the lopsided grin and the wicked-abashed twinkle. "Ah," he says, of course. "No." Of course. He slips the book, now closed, up onto the table beside the journal. Slick.
Oh, that was interesting. But Miniyal lets it all go, she notices everything that occurs, but doesn't comment. Not yet. Instead she heads for the other room to drop one package on the bed carelessly. Clothes are not that important she won't just leave them anywhere. Wrinkles or no, they'll sit there. Actually, she doesn't even go into the other room, just sort of tosses them from the doorway. Once she's made sure they land on the bed she turns, heading for the table to drop off her notes. She does this by leaning over him and this allows her to plant a kiss upon his cheek. Remaining as she is, chin resting upon his shoulder she asks, "What're you doing?" As if she does not see the book. As if she has no idea at all he might have been reading it. "If you're sure you're not busy?" she says then, straightening up, eyes twinkling. "I can leave you alone if you need me to?" Teasing him, for the book and his attention to it. It helps to keep her from nervous pluckings at the new dress after all. Put him on the defensive first!
His cheek is warm beneath her lips, though pale as ever. It is tell-tale enough, for her. "I am entirely certain I am not busy," he says, and as he turns to try to recapture her - straighten, will she! Well. He has a hand slipping out to start to take her waist. "Not too busy to - " As fingertips make contact, his awareness sharpens. Perhaps it's from her proximity. Perhaps it's because of the color. Perhaps, and this is admittedly likely a factor in any case, it's because of the book. Gans lets out a little breath he hadn't noticed catching in his throat, and the hand that would have caught her up in his grip and aimed to pull her into his lap starts instead an awed caress over new fabric. His gaze slides inevitably upward, and the grin is less abashed by the time his eyes search for hers. "Well," he says, pulling the word apart into two syllables.
With those two syllables the upper hand shifts. Cheeks turn red and although her tone is still light and breathy there is a small stammer to it as she asks, "You like it?" She meets his gaze just a moment and then her eyes drop, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she looks up again, smile back in place. One hand reaches out, but rather than land on his shoulder or trace the lines of his cheek it reaches past him. Plucking up the book, determined to regain her position she leans lightly against him, into the touch of his hand. Studying the cover a moment she finally tsks. "Such reading material, Gans." Slyly, Miniyal says his name, drawing it out. "Is this how you spent your day? I am shocked." The book is opened at random and she allows herself to read a few lines of a random passage. When she is done she looks up, over the book, and smiles again slowly. "Very shocked."
"Oh, I do," he replies, while he still has her eyes - and when she drops the meeting of gazes first, he takes it merely as permission to look at the dress, or at the shape of her in it, instead. Until she's leaning close enough to reach for the book, and then something like a mild, affectionate sigh of exasperation comes out of him and he glances away, not quite rolling his eyes. "You are not in the remotest way shocked," he retorts after a moment, and with the hand at her waist tugs her closer - lap, dammit. The other hand darts up with speed to belie his age, slender fingers aiming to claim the bookmark out from between the pages. If he gets it, he'll just turn it over and show it to her, like she needs to see her own writing to remember their exchange.
"Good, because I traded good wine for it so you had better like it," she tells him, laughing quietly. "And the other things I bought as well." Not that Miniyal is in /any/ way bothering with this part of her appearance for his sake. Of course not. That would be silly. "I am shocked," is said with a small tilt upwards of her chin. "Really, Gans." Again with his name said so quietly, teasing him with it on her lips as she lets him tug her again, this time giving him what he wants as she settles into his lap. She will allow him the bookmark, still holding the book, and her head will bend to examine the writing. "And carrying on with someone over it. Tsk. For shame. You are setting a poor example for me." Since doesn't need to hold the book anymore she leans over his shoulder to set it back on the table once more.
He'll put up with all manner of being teased while she's in his lap. The slender build of him obliges her to seat herself across his legs rather than along them, but this won't stop him encircling her with one arm and, after getting the bookmark out of the other one onto the edge of the desk, drifting fingertips over trim, seams, neckline of the dress - as if it's the details of the weaver's work he's admiring. Which it isn't, not strictly. "With -someone,-" Gans murmurs, rich and droll and bemused. "Someone who promised me a poetry recitation. -Recitation.-" The emphasis strikes the word with a little thrill of teasing, and he raises his gaze to find hers, eyes sparkling.
She makes no attempt to be still in his lap although she is not one of those who feels the need to squirm with every touch given to her. She does move; a small shift there, a sigh here as she tilts herself inwards towards his hand. Reserved not because she is shy, but because it will drag this out more, last longer. It is not as if they do not have all night and Miniyal has always been patient. In most things. "I see," is the reply he gets as she gives in to the temptation to capture his mouth with hers. Her kiss is not coy or teasing, instead being a promise of more to come. Later. A down payment for the rest of the evening. When it ends her eyes sparkle and her cheeks are flushed once more. "I believe I did," she whispers, breath too shallow to allow much volume to it. "But only if you did something first."
He murmurs into her mouth a wordless pleasure in their kiss, his own promise of a kind. After that he lets his hand drift from the neckline of the dress to her knee, fingertips playing at tucks of fabric and curves beneath along the way, savoring without hesitation the fullness of her figure. He cannot help watching the travel of his hand, but once it stills he looks up at her readily enough, eyes warm and delighted. "You did," he agrees. "If I'm correct." A beat, and Gans teases, "I was surprised there was no consequence set should I happen to be wrong." Another beat, and then, "Canvas," and alas, he cannot quite keep it from sounding a little like a question, only ninety percent certain.
"Oh, there was," Miniyal answers with a brilliant flash of a smile. "You would not have got to hear me recite the poem," she points out with a lowering of lashes, coy now. When he gives the name of the poem she looks up again, studying his face. "Oh, very good," is praised warmly as she leans in again, this time to brush lips across his cheek in an entirely teasing sort of gesture. "Do you know it? Had you heard of it before now? You know, lots of people still don't believe he wrote it. Do you want to hear the story? Or shall I skip ahead to the poem?" One arm wraps around his shoulders and she leans her head against his chest. "You won therefore you get to decide. Although I did say after dessert and there's been no dinner yet at all."
"If you ask me, I have dessert right here." His voice is, as would be suited to his words, low and sweetened by frank desire. But he can rarely resist her head against his chest or the lilt of a question on her voice. "I know it now," Gans confesses bemusedly. "Tell me the story." He bends his elbow a bit behind her then, so his hand can slide across from her shoulder to caress the expanse of her back left bare above the dress' line. "And I'll put out the meal while you start on the poem, because if you're sitting here at the time we'll have nothing but sweets for supper."
"Dinner is so much more interesting with you about." Her head lifts some so she can breath against his neck, lips coming close to brushing against his skin but being just a tiny breath away from actual contact. Teasing now most definitely. "As if either of us would mind." Pointed out by Miniyal with a warm look as she sits up, not moving from his lap just yet. "And I do not desire to move from here?" she asks as she rests her other hand on his chest. And because she does not wish to she does not, instead beginning her story from where she sits. "Poleron was a master. He wrote Melody, you know Melody? Well, he wrote it for his wife." For Miniyal, but she doesn't say that. She merely pauses a moment in case he wishes to fill the name in himself. "Well, two turns after it came out Canvas surfaced. People looked to Poleron because it was his style, but of course he wouldn't admit it. I always thought he would, but that someone from the hall wouldn't let him. So he did not say if he wrote it or not. And she would not confirm or deny it either. They said if he did he wrote it not for her but for a mistress."
She stops here, shaking her head. Clearly she does not believe it. But, she is a romantic. Which she tries desperately to hide, but does so poorly with him. "If you read them both it is so obvious he wrote it for her. You don't get that kind of passion. . .I mean. Well, it's clear he wrote it for her." Because her namesake would not be cheated on. Not. "So no one knows, but those who have studied his work believe it to be his."
"Then I suppose we'll have to pass on dinner," Gans admits, regarding what will happen if his lover doesn't leave his lap. To be fair, he's doing nothing to help her, stroking her back and holding her knee and gazing on her with eyes that, if questionably love, certainly adore. He fills in her name, Poleron's wife's name, where it belongs; of course, on his mouth it has nothing to do with an ancient harper or his wife. It has far more to do with tea and sweet pastries and blue gowns lain out over a narrow chair in his bedroom. He lingers on its last syllable long enough that she will be obliged to speak over him, but this is no difficult doing; his benediction is barely a whisper.
"It reads as though it is his," he remarks after the story, in its somewhat editorialized form, is complete. "I would - and no expert I - be inclined to agree. The original must be lost; a copy in his hand would be the seal on it, I suppose." No opinions on the subject, though. Gans leans back a little in the chair, encouraging her to lean with him, and since it's just the desk-chair they're sitting in there's some sense of crowding, which he's all too willing to embrace so she's obliged to sit tight against him. "Should I get dinner now?" Using his supernatural abilities to move dishes and plates without getting out from under her. Right. His tone is high irony.
"I would give so much for an original. Maybe there's one hidden at harper somewhere." Miniyal considers this, eyes gleaming with something other than the rising passion shared between the two. She'll be dragging him through every archive there and soon. "It would be. . .so very wonderful." Forgive her for being distracted for a bit. Love vying with lust for attention here. Still, she is in his lap and they have spent some time now building up to where they are going and so she gets back on track. She nuzzles, the spot between shoulder and neck. "We can go and look perhaps. Just the two of us." He is not going to miss the way she says it. He is going to guess that should they go and she get him alone she might not be so distracted by records this time. When her head lifts she smiles at him. Then? She gently breaks his embrace and slips from his lap. It is a slow process, involving the trailing of one hand down his chest, along his leg. On her feet she takes a moment to fix her dress, smoothing it down and adjusting it. "Dinner will wait. For now I owe you a recital." She intends, it seems, for him to sit there as she recites. Like a harper lesson. Although there's no way this particular poem was ever recited before a harper by a child.
"I would be surprised if we are the first to think of it - " He pauses when she nuzzles him, gaining the idea that it might be more to his benefit not to dissuade her from this likely-fruitless search. The idea pays off as he does, indeed, get the way she suggests going to look, and the hand at her back flattens there, palm cool yet urgent against her skin. "We'll have to," Gans allows, quick enough to change his tune. Sixty-seven but still a man. As she slips from his lap he moves forward a little in the chair; as she leaves so little space between her standing self and his knees, he realizes he's not meant to get up and slides back into the seat as she confirms his realization with words. "Yes," he says, drolly wry, "you do," and takes up an appropriate position for attention to this 'lesson': elbows on the chair arms, long hands gathered neat across his lap.
He is a man, indeed, and she is a woman. Which means she has instincts where practice might fail her. He is given an approving smile, nearly sly. "I have to visit harper for Roa," Miniyal points out with a shrug as if it's nothing. "Perhaps, Gans, you might like to take the opportunity to visit as well? Because." And here she pauses. Because although she is wrapped up now in thinking of the moment with him and not her research she is still thinking of her research. It cannot be helped. "Many may have looked, Gans. But they are not me." Arrogant almost in her words. Another contradiction. So sure of herself when she is not thinking of it, believing in herself when there is something distracting her from her self-doubts. She does not launch into the poem then, waiting to see if he will reply before she does so. Wanting nothing at all to disrupt her words when she begins.
"No," he agrees, softly. "They are not you." Another benediction in the way he says this. No one could be her; no one could come close. He slips forward in the chair again, hands raising from its arms, moving smoothly as if he'd just take her in his embrace and slide up against her - and only on the edge of his seat remembers he's meant to be audience, not participant, at the moment. So Gans subsides and retreats again to pretend-scholarliness, his smile one-sided and wryly self-conscious.
"I love you," she murmurs as she watches him. Given freely, there is nothing in her tone or her look that shows she expects her words to be returned. Neither is there censure for them not being returned. It is fact. It is Truth. She loves him. For his words. For the way he believes in her even when she cannot believe in herself. The look she gives him is a kiss undelivered. She wants to lean forward and once more press her lips to his and this time not stop until they have removed themselves to somewhere else. But Miniyal does not because she promised something else and she is not the sort of woman to go back on her word. To her detriment sometime.
Instead she launches into the poem. The first stanza is not strong. But it is set up. It does not ruin the recitation. She is shy, looking away from him as she utters the words that open the poem. When she reaches the second stanza she has found her courage and meets his eyes with hers. For the rest of the poem she does not look away, trapped in his gaze, unwilling and unable to not watch his reactions to the words that spill from her lips. Perhaps she has practiced them? Or perhaps she simply has a gift for this. A gift that terminal shyness and self-doubt keeps her from showing to the world. Or maybe it is just his attention that she can capture. Miniyal does not hesitate when she has her feet under her so to speak. The words flow, in the right timbre, the right intonation, the right speed. The words caress him as they speak of supple brush on pale canvas. On the spark of color spreading with application of that brush. Her posture is perfect, but it adjusts to the words, there is no way to separate the words her lips from the movement of her body. And when it ends? When the final words describe in detail the way the brush brings out the scarlet on the canvas so white she stops. And waits. Eyes brilliantly trapped in the words she just shared, watching him expectantly.
Gans smiles through the first stanza - encouragement more than amusement - but once she catches her stride and fixes him in her gaze, he's just as pinned as he could ever be. The smile slides away, but leaves no lack of pleasure in his features once it's gone. He might as well feel the words physically, taking in their meaning without the bother of language and the cognitive processing it requires. By the third stanza his left-hand fingertips trace odd-size circles in the woodgrain of the chair's arm, and by the last one, he's slipped forward once more (quite by accident) to the edge of his seat.
He cannot break her gaze, but neither can he breathe quite properly; each draw is a gasp waiting to happen and each release is a sigh that wants to be a moan. "Miniyal," he manages, because that is the best thing he can find to say, the only thing he can find to say, and even as he slides up from the chair as he'd been ready to do before, he reaches for her with blindly seeking hands.
There was no other response she expected. Any other response might have broken the mood. As this is what she thought would become of this, what would end her words, Miniyal is prepared for them. When he rises she is waiting. When his hands reach for her she is there. More than there because she takes that half step closer to him, her body meeting his full on as she tilts her head up, lips waiting for his. Swaying into him her hands find his shoulders and she stops waiting. Has she not waited long enough? They will have to find a way to breathe through the kiss because as much trouble as she seems to be having with the former she is not going to give up the latter. Someone else might waste time with words, but she uses her hands, finding some other way to use her lips to show what she feels. Dinner will wait. It will have to because her intent is clear, it will wait until they are done with more important tasks that will, barely, wait until they have removed themselves to a room more appropriate for such displays.
Where: Their room. Because otherwise it would be indecent!
When: 17:36 on day 18, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
What: At the gather, Miniyal found a book for G'thon. Which lead to. . .this. In which he finds the poem she challenged him to and therefore recites it.
Warning: Adult content. Because when a woman buys erotica for the man she loves this is what happens. :)
11/3/2006
At High Reaches Weyr, it is 17:36 on day 18, month 9, turn 2 of the 7th Pass.
There had been another place marked at one point: a poem, its title a little telltale, its style a little more so. That time, Gans did not trouble to write anything on the slip of hide serving as communal bookmark. But he hasn't said anything, hasn't confirmed his choice in any way that would prove he's selected the right passage out of the collection.
He waits now for her to return from whatever the day's taken her away to do. He's meant to be writing in his journal; it sits closed on the blotter before him, pen and ink at the ready beside it. The pen is stained, so perhaps he has made -some- progress. But the man himself is kicked back - as much as he ever is - in the chair behind the work-desk, legs crossed, elbows propped on the arms of the chair, book open in one hand. The other keeps a teacup barely balanced on the chair-arm, fingers fidgeting slow circles across the design painted on the ceramic surface. Uncharacteristic attentiveness to what he's reading distracts him, but the bookmark lies telltale on the table by half a biscuit. Presumably he ate the other half before forgetting it.
The day takes her all over these days, running around doing research for the newest junior weyrwoman. Today she spent the day at home, well, at the weyr which is her home at least. Ensconced in the records room looking up records as far back as she can find. Anyone else might have found it a chore, but she was content to visit with the people she recently worked with and copy down what she needed and generally /not/ have to help out other people who come in looking for things. Much better for her to be able to just do what she wishes and tease those forced to help someone locate a record that they could remember seeing, somewhere, that had been written by a harper before this pass.
It is after this restful day, notes in hand, that she returns to their room. The door opens and she steps in quietly, letting out a sigh once the door is closed behind her. The day would have been perfect had she not had to visit the weyr's weavers again and actually pick up and pay for the items she, in some weird mood, commissioned. Still, that package is tucked under her arm as well, more carelessly than the notes she has taken. Her eyes flicker around the room and settle upon him, smiling as she remains by the door. "Busy?"
He ought to hear the closure of the door. And perhaps he does; after all, he's reaching, slow and silent, for the bookmark when she finishes coming through and lets out that little sigh. But her eyes hadn't been on him, at least not that he could be sure, at that point; it's the word that does it. The teacup twists out of his caressing fingers and dumps over onto the floor, lip down and foot up; as it falls a few droplets swing out of it, but the lack of a puddle - and the lack of any utterance of dismay from the tea-drinker - suggests the cup was empty. Still; Gans makes some effort to get that bookmark into the book, and the book itself closed, and his legs uncrossed, and himself sat forward in the chair so it might seem a little more like he's just - taking a moment away from the journal, yes. Not a long moment. Not most of the evening. All of this fails wholly, because he can't keep suppressed the lopsided grin and the wicked-abashed twinkle. "Ah," he says, of course. "No." Of course. He slips the book, now closed, up onto the table beside the journal. Slick.
Oh, that was interesting. But Miniyal lets it all go, she notices everything that occurs, but doesn't comment. Not yet. Instead she heads for the other room to drop one package on the bed carelessly. Clothes are not that important she won't just leave them anywhere. Wrinkles or no, they'll sit there. Actually, she doesn't even go into the other room, just sort of tosses them from the doorway. Once she's made sure they land on the bed she turns, heading for the table to drop off her notes. She does this by leaning over him and this allows her to plant a kiss upon his cheek. Remaining as she is, chin resting upon his shoulder she asks, "What're you doing?" As if she does not see the book. As if she has no idea at all he might have been reading it. "If you're sure you're not busy?" she says then, straightening up, eyes twinkling. "I can leave you alone if you need me to?" Teasing him, for the book and his attention to it. It helps to keep her from nervous pluckings at the new dress after all. Put him on the defensive first!
His cheek is warm beneath her lips, though pale as ever. It is tell-tale enough, for her. "I am entirely certain I am not busy," he says, and as he turns to try to recapture her - straighten, will she! Well. He has a hand slipping out to start to take her waist. "Not too busy to - " As fingertips make contact, his awareness sharpens. Perhaps it's from her proximity. Perhaps it's because of the color. Perhaps, and this is admittedly likely a factor in any case, it's because of the book. Gans lets out a little breath he hadn't noticed catching in his throat, and the hand that would have caught her up in his grip and aimed to pull her into his lap starts instead an awed caress over new fabric. His gaze slides inevitably upward, and the grin is less abashed by the time his eyes search for hers. "Well," he says, pulling the word apart into two syllables.
With those two syllables the upper hand shifts. Cheeks turn red and although her tone is still light and breathy there is a small stammer to it as she asks, "You like it?" She meets his gaze just a moment and then her eyes drop, teeth worrying at her lower lip before she looks up again, smile back in place. One hand reaches out, but rather than land on his shoulder or trace the lines of his cheek it reaches past him. Plucking up the book, determined to regain her position she leans lightly against him, into the touch of his hand. Studying the cover a moment she finally tsks. "Such reading material, Gans." Slyly, Miniyal says his name, drawing it out. "Is this how you spent your day? I am shocked." The book is opened at random and she allows herself to read a few lines of a random passage. When she is done she looks up, over the book, and smiles again slowly. "Very shocked."
"Oh, I do," he replies, while he still has her eyes - and when she drops the meeting of gazes first, he takes it merely as permission to look at the dress, or at the shape of her in it, instead. Until she's leaning close enough to reach for the book, and then something like a mild, affectionate sigh of exasperation comes out of him and he glances away, not quite rolling his eyes. "You are not in the remotest way shocked," he retorts after a moment, and with the hand at her waist tugs her closer - lap, dammit. The other hand darts up with speed to belie his age, slender fingers aiming to claim the bookmark out from between the pages. If he gets it, he'll just turn it over and show it to her, like she needs to see her own writing to remember their exchange.
"Good, because I traded good wine for it so you had better like it," she tells him, laughing quietly. "And the other things I bought as well." Not that Miniyal is in /any/ way bothering with this part of her appearance for his sake. Of course not. That would be silly. "I am shocked," is said with a small tilt upwards of her chin. "Really, Gans." Again with his name said so quietly, teasing him with it on her lips as she lets him tug her again, this time giving him what he wants as she settles into his lap. She will allow him the bookmark, still holding the book, and her head will bend to examine the writing. "And carrying on with someone over it. Tsk. For shame. You are setting a poor example for me." Since doesn't need to hold the book anymore she leans over his shoulder to set it back on the table once more.
He'll put up with all manner of being teased while she's in his lap. The slender build of him obliges her to seat herself across his legs rather than along them, but this won't stop him encircling her with one arm and, after getting the bookmark out of the other one onto the edge of the desk, drifting fingertips over trim, seams, neckline of the dress - as if it's the details of the weaver's work he's admiring. Which it isn't, not strictly. "With -someone,-" Gans murmurs, rich and droll and bemused. "Someone who promised me a poetry recitation. -Recitation.-" The emphasis strikes the word with a little thrill of teasing, and he raises his gaze to find hers, eyes sparkling.
She makes no attempt to be still in his lap although she is not one of those who feels the need to squirm with every touch given to her. She does move; a small shift there, a sigh here as she tilts herself inwards towards his hand. Reserved not because she is shy, but because it will drag this out more, last longer. It is not as if they do not have all night and Miniyal has always been patient. In most things. "I see," is the reply he gets as she gives in to the temptation to capture his mouth with hers. Her kiss is not coy or teasing, instead being a promise of more to come. Later. A down payment for the rest of the evening. When it ends her eyes sparkle and her cheeks are flushed once more. "I believe I did," she whispers, breath too shallow to allow much volume to it. "But only if you did something first."
He murmurs into her mouth a wordless pleasure in their kiss, his own promise of a kind. After that he lets his hand drift from the neckline of the dress to her knee, fingertips playing at tucks of fabric and curves beneath along the way, savoring without hesitation the fullness of her figure. He cannot help watching the travel of his hand, but once it stills he looks up at her readily enough, eyes warm and delighted. "You did," he agrees. "If I'm correct." A beat, and Gans teases, "I was surprised there was no consequence set should I happen to be wrong." Another beat, and then, "Canvas," and alas, he cannot quite keep it from sounding a little like a question, only ninety percent certain.
"Oh, there was," Miniyal answers with a brilliant flash of a smile. "You would not have got to hear me recite the poem," she points out with a lowering of lashes, coy now. When he gives the name of the poem she looks up again, studying his face. "Oh, very good," is praised warmly as she leans in again, this time to brush lips across his cheek in an entirely teasing sort of gesture. "Do you know it? Had you heard of it before now? You know, lots of people still don't believe he wrote it. Do you want to hear the story? Or shall I skip ahead to the poem?" One arm wraps around his shoulders and she leans her head against his chest. "You won therefore you get to decide. Although I did say after dessert and there's been no dinner yet at all."
"If you ask me, I have dessert right here." His voice is, as would be suited to his words, low and sweetened by frank desire. But he can rarely resist her head against his chest or the lilt of a question on her voice. "I know it now," Gans confesses bemusedly. "Tell me the story." He bends his elbow a bit behind her then, so his hand can slide across from her shoulder to caress the expanse of her back left bare above the dress' line. "And I'll put out the meal while you start on the poem, because if you're sitting here at the time we'll have nothing but sweets for supper."
"Dinner is so much more interesting with you about." Her head lifts some so she can breath against his neck, lips coming close to brushing against his skin but being just a tiny breath away from actual contact. Teasing now most definitely. "As if either of us would mind." Pointed out by Miniyal with a warm look as she sits up, not moving from his lap just yet. "And I do not desire to move from here?" she asks as she rests her other hand on his chest. And because she does not wish to she does not, instead beginning her story from where she sits. "Poleron was a master. He wrote Melody, you know Melody? Well, he wrote it for his wife." For Miniyal, but she doesn't say that. She merely pauses a moment in case he wishes to fill the name in himself. "Well, two turns after it came out Canvas surfaced. People looked to Poleron because it was his style, but of course he wouldn't admit it. I always thought he would, but that someone from the hall wouldn't let him. So he did not say if he wrote it or not. And she would not confirm or deny it either. They said if he did he wrote it not for her but for a mistress."
She stops here, shaking her head. Clearly she does not believe it. But, she is a romantic. Which she tries desperately to hide, but does so poorly with him. "If you read them both it is so obvious he wrote it for her. You don't get that kind of passion. . .I mean. Well, it's clear he wrote it for her." Because her namesake would not be cheated on. Not. "So no one knows, but those who have studied his work believe it to be his."
"Then I suppose we'll have to pass on dinner," Gans admits, regarding what will happen if his lover doesn't leave his lap. To be fair, he's doing nothing to help her, stroking her back and holding her knee and gazing on her with eyes that, if questionably love, certainly adore. He fills in her name, Poleron's wife's name, where it belongs; of course, on his mouth it has nothing to do with an ancient harper or his wife. It has far more to do with tea and sweet pastries and blue gowns lain out over a narrow chair in his bedroom. He lingers on its last syllable long enough that she will be obliged to speak over him, but this is no difficult doing; his benediction is barely a whisper.
"It reads as though it is his," he remarks after the story, in its somewhat editorialized form, is complete. "I would - and no expert I - be inclined to agree. The original must be lost; a copy in his hand would be the seal on it, I suppose." No opinions on the subject, though. Gans leans back a little in the chair, encouraging her to lean with him, and since it's just the desk-chair they're sitting in there's some sense of crowding, which he's all too willing to embrace so she's obliged to sit tight against him. "Should I get dinner now?" Using his supernatural abilities to move dishes and plates without getting out from under her. Right. His tone is high irony.
"I would give so much for an original. Maybe there's one hidden at harper somewhere." Miniyal considers this, eyes gleaming with something other than the rising passion shared between the two. She'll be dragging him through every archive there and soon. "It would be. . .so very wonderful." Forgive her for being distracted for a bit. Love vying with lust for attention here. Still, she is in his lap and they have spent some time now building up to where they are going and so she gets back on track. She nuzzles, the spot between shoulder and neck. "We can go and look perhaps. Just the two of us." He is not going to miss the way she says it. He is going to guess that should they go and she get him alone she might not be so distracted by records this time. When her head lifts she smiles at him. Then? She gently breaks his embrace and slips from his lap. It is a slow process, involving the trailing of one hand down his chest, along his leg. On her feet she takes a moment to fix her dress, smoothing it down and adjusting it. "Dinner will wait. For now I owe you a recital." She intends, it seems, for him to sit there as she recites. Like a harper lesson. Although there's no way this particular poem was ever recited before a harper by a child.
"I would be surprised if we are the first to think of it - " He pauses when she nuzzles him, gaining the idea that it might be more to his benefit not to dissuade her from this likely-fruitless search. The idea pays off as he does, indeed, get the way she suggests going to look, and the hand at her back flattens there, palm cool yet urgent against her skin. "We'll have to," Gans allows, quick enough to change his tune. Sixty-seven but still a man. As she slips from his lap he moves forward a little in the chair; as she leaves so little space between her standing self and his knees, he realizes he's not meant to get up and slides back into the seat as she confirms his realization with words. "Yes," he says, drolly wry, "you do," and takes up an appropriate position for attention to this 'lesson': elbows on the chair arms, long hands gathered neat across his lap.
He is a man, indeed, and she is a woman. Which means she has instincts where practice might fail her. He is given an approving smile, nearly sly. "I have to visit harper for Roa," Miniyal points out with a shrug as if it's nothing. "Perhaps, Gans, you might like to take the opportunity to visit as well? Because." And here she pauses. Because although she is wrapped up now in thinking of the moment with him and not her research she is still thinking of her research. It cannot be helped. "Many may have looked, Gans. But they are not me." Arrogant almost in her words. Another contradiction. So sure of herself when she is not thinking of it, believing in herself when there is something distracting her from her self-doubts. She does not launch into the poem then, waiting to see if he will reply before she does so. Wanting nothing at all to disrupt her words when she begins.
"No," he agrees, softly. "They are not you." Another benediction in the way he says this. No one could be her; no one could come close. He slips forward in the chair again, hands raising from its arms, moving smoothly as if he'd just take her in his embrace and slide up against her - and only on the edge of his seat remembers he's meant to be audience, not participant, at the moment. So Gans subsides and retreats again to pretend-scholarliness, his smile one-sided and wryly self-conscious.
"I love you," she murmurs as she watches him. Given freely, there is nothing in her tone or her look that shows she expects her words to be returned. Neither is there censure for them not being returned. It is fact. It is Truth. She loves him. For his words. For the way he believes in her even when she cannot believe in herself. The look she gives him is a kiss undelivered. She wants to lean forward and once more press her lips to his and this time not stop until they have removed themselves to somewhere else. But Miniyal does not because she promised something else and she is not the sort of woman to go back on her word. To her detriment sometime.
Instead she launches into the poem. The first stanza is not strong. But it is set up. It does not ruin the recitation. She is shy, looking away from him as she utters the words that open the poem. When she reaches the second stanza she has found her courage and meets his eyes with hers. For the rest of the poem she does not look away, trapped in his gaze, unwilling and unable to not watch his reactions to the words that spill from her lips. Perhaps she has practiced them? Or perhaps she simply has a gift for this. A gift that terminal shyness and self-doubt keeps her from showing to the world. Or maybe it is just his attention that she can capture. Miniyal does not hesitate when she has her feet under her so to speak. The words flow, in the right timbre, the right intonation, the right speed. The words caress him as they speak of supple brush on pale canvas. On the spark of color spreading with application of that brush. Her posture is perfect, but it adjusts to the words, there is no way to separate the words her lips from the movement of her body. And when it ends? When the final words describe in detail the way the brush brings out the scarlet on the canvas so white she stops. And waits. Eyes brilliantly trapped in the words she just shared, watching him expectantly.
Gans smiles through the first stanza - encouragement more than amusement - but once she catches her stride and fixes him in her gaze, he's just as pinned as he could ever be. The smile slides away, but leaves no lack of pleasure in his features once it's gone. He might as well feel the words physically, taking in their meaning without the bother of language and the cognitive processing it requires. By the third stanza his left-hand fingertips trace odd-size circles in the woodgrain of the chair's arm, and by the last one, he's slipped forward once more (quite by accident) to the edge of his seat.
He cannot break her gaze, but neither can he breathe quite properly; each draw is a gasp waiting to happen and each release is a sigh that wants to be a moan. "Miniyal," he manages, because that is the best thing he can find to say, the only thing he can find to say, and even as he slides up from the chair as he'd been ready to do before, he reaches for her with blindly seeking hands.
There was no other response she expected. Any other response might have broken the mood. As this is what she thought would become of this, what would end her words, Miniyal is prepared for them. When he rises she is waiting. When his hands reach for her she is there. More than there because she takes that half step closer to him, her body meeting his full on as she tilts her head up, lips waiting for his. Swaying into him her hands find his shoulders and she stops waiting. Has she not waited long enough? They will have to find a way to breathe through the kiss because as much trouble as she seems to be having with the former she is not going to give up the latter. Someone else might waste time with words, but she uses her hands, finding some other way to use her lips to show what she feels. Dinner will wait. It will have to because her intent is clear, it will wait until they are done with more important tasks that will, barely, wait until they have removed themselves to a room more appropriate for such displays.